


The Parable of The Mariner and The Garnet

by ValorousOwl



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Divergent, Canon stretching based on various theories, Dolorosa doesn't have time for Fishprince bullshit, Dualscar is not a good person and he should not be thought of as such, Dualscar that aided in the rebellion for his own benefit, F/M, Gen, God tier shenanigans, I refuse to pardon Mindfang, M/M, Main ship is Dualkri, Mamarosa, Multi, Noncon mentions but nothing shown, Rebel Dualscar, That being said I am aquarius/cancer trash, Too many damn ships to keep track of, With Crokri Pale, and Dualrosa pale, blood and gore from chapter two onwards, however he can do some good things with his power, mostly rated for violence and eventual smut maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValorousOwl/pseuds/ValorousOwl
Summary: A doomed offshoot of a doomed offshoot should never be allowed to exist, much less thrive. From the ashes of a victorious session never meant to be a god falls to Alternia and into the hands of the second-highest ranked troll in all the lands. Time isn't progressing how it should, the narrative is lost and one mutant is cast into the spotlight of a world he wasn't remotely prepared for.Will the traitor's sacrifices be in vain? Will he die as the cosmos' worst joke?Or can they find a new path to forge, free of expectations of Empress and Timelord both? Time will tell.





	1. Prologue: The Fall

By all accounts, a doomed offshoot of a doomed offshoot never should have come to be, much less come to be fruitful. Paradox space exists to host a one-sided game of death and destruction to fit the narrative of a millennia-old brat that grew too big for his britches. That being said, occasionally, it is forgiving, and a slim outcome is allowed to come to pass rather than simply brought to the attention of the Lord of Double Death and then eradicated with great prejudice. From the failed sessions of a group of twelve children, a rare win occurs. These children, headed fast for their second molt into adults, twelve who could not get along or fight or call themselves friends or rivals, somehow found victory in their grasp.

Standing upon the platform that usually became their final grave, they are allowed a small respite. They are allowed to breathe and separate themselves from the last great fight. Instead of just disappearing into the void and into irrelevance, they stand triumphant, bathed in the gold of their session.

This change brought about one choice: The protection and sacrifice visited upon their Heir of Doom by his moirail, the Prince of Rage. One choice of his palemate over his god and the whole outcome of their lives shifted.  
  
How utterly saccharine it was. How stupidly simple was this solution.  
  
Kurloz could not bring himself to be unhappy about it. Even tired as he was, his free arm connected by only cracked bone and the barest of sinew to the upper half, it was better still because he could feel Mituna's hand in his, his other hand casually and carelessly laid on his thigh near where his cheek was pressed. Every inch of his moirail sans his equally wild curls was warm, almost hot against Kurloz through the clothes of his godtier tights. It was bliss unlike anything he could have known otherwise. He would not regret his decision, despite two voices in his head screaming at him. He focused only on the one that sounded more like Meulin. He focused on the tentative hooks of the Sylph, as she forced him to understand the reality she spun of words and light and knit his flesh back to rights.  
The two lay close together where their Sylph could heal them both at once.  
  
They'd taken the brunt of the damage from the Black King and Queen. Being a tank had some disadvantages. The only other as badly hurt was their Page of Void, and he was faring better by leaps and bounds. Healthy as a horse one might say.

Horuss was unconcerned about his wounds. Indeed, if not for the intervention of the Witch of Time and the Rogue of Breath, he would have already bisected himself and become a centaur. Far, far, far more refined. Alas, they liked his fleshy self over metal; not everyone was as much of a technophile as himself it seemed, but he could compromise. There was still biological augmentation through ectobiology.

The Seer of Blood lounged near the Bard of Hope, comforted by his presence and the cool arm at his back. He was not normally so appreciative of hands-on treatment; a long history of culling made him distrustful and wary about anyone entering his personal space. Today was an exception, and the violet blooded troll another exception. The Bard leaned close to the Seer, and whispered something to him. His brows knit together and his free ear twitched a little as he listened to his partner’s secret nothings. Cronus grinned wider, earfins wiggling in mischief, and murmured something particularly close to him. Kankri, however, was less appreciative of him being so close and speaking so frankly. His face immediately flushed red and he pulled slightly away before attacking him with smacks to the chest and arms. Cronus was unconcerned by his outrage and laughed at him, leaving Kankri to pout.

Porrim took her opportunity to pull him so close he was wrapped in her arms. The Maid of Space hissed at the bedraggled seadweller who just stuck his tongue out at her. Hey, he thought his prank was good. She glowed white in response and snarled at him.  
Meenah watched it all with increasing boredom. She was waiting for the moment the hive monolith changed from their session’s gold to white. Then they could claim their prize. She was getting impatient. Moreover, she was getting annoyed. Her knee jerked under her hand and gilded fuchsia nails tapped out a nonsense beat on her 2x3dent.

This was all taking too long. She wanted her damn reward already. She deserved it for dealing with these assholes for so long. For leading them to victory--never mind that it was a gaming strategy from Mituna's that had led to them actually defeating the Royal Dersites.

Her eyes did a quick scan of the area. Damara preoccupied by Latula, who was trying to get into one of those shitty Eastern games with the complicated plots. Meulin was intimidating Rufioh, and Horuss was attempting, poorly, to mediate. Kankri was being harassed by Porrim and Cronus, both in some kind of weird pitch-pale-ashen conflict. Aranea was still healing up Kurloz and Mituna.

Perfect. No one to stop her. If the door wouldn't just open then clearly she, the Thief, ought to break it down and loot what was rightfully theirs.

Kurloz’s head jerked up, eyes narrowed in suspicion, irises bright as if he was about to activate his chucklevoodoos. Fat lot of good that'd do him. She was determined to get her own way and this time around he'd forced himself to abstain from the chucklevoodoos, the ability to prophesy by seeing through the eyes of other clowns and alternates was not worth the mental strain or the risk of falling back into his old habits.

Aranea caught his expression and instantly stood. Her shout came too late, Meenah cackled before launching herself at the door, pulling at the depths of her power and the universe she sensed waiting behind the door to try and force it open.

Damara flashstepped in front of her, stopping the brunt of her attack with physical psionics. She growled and snapped at her throat wildly, her thorns were yanked from her hair sending a cascade of black locks to fall wildly in her face before blasting an attack at Meenah. Meenah merely blocked with her weapon and slid back, her boots digging into the stone as she did. Aranea stomped over to her, prepared to mediate or even just kick the shit out of her for starting something again but it was already too far gone.

By now Damara had thrown herself into hissed expletives and vicious attacks. It was better than Meenah deserved if she was being honest, but the Sylph wasn't In the business of selling honesty and facts these days. The vaguely red warmth that filled her cold cobalt heart pushed her form into action.

Even with light and luck and vision eightfold, the Sylph found herself hard pressed when caught between the red and pink light that blew across the battlefield like a meteor shower.

Blow for blow. Minute by minute she found herself stuck between them trying to redirect Damara's attacks and simultaneously keep Meenah from her ill-gotten prize. She had half a mind to let them beat each other into submission. However, given how brash and thoughtless Meenah had been, how quick she was to throw away their hard won and slim chance of victory, Aranea was sure the dichotomy of the game would rule her death Just. No doubt no matter how quickly and easy Damara had bounded in to take her vengeance the game would call her the Hero here. Aranea didn't disagree.

While the remaining nine gods had much to say, not a one would raise a finger to help her with them. None of them it seemed felt particularly driven to help the beleaguered Sylph. That had to change. A subtle grin and a roll of the dice was all it took to send an errant blast of leeching life energies going wide past Damara. Meenah didn't seem to dwell on the fact her aim had become so poor. The shot hit Kankri squarely where he sat between Cronus and Porrim, knocking his proverbial and literal slippers off and knocking him on his back to gape fishlike and pathetic as a full third of his health was transferred to the heiress who cheered the sudden unexpected boost of energy. As expected Porrim bolted into action shrieking like a banshee and still audible over her chainsaw. Cronus predictably stayed close to his moirail, dropping nearly on top of him, his codpiece pressing into the other's thigh playfully. It was as much to protect his palemate as it was to keep his own hide out of trouble. Ah, she shouldn't be so critical, after all he'd used quite a bit of bravery to help them get to this point. That and Kankri would likely chastise him himself. It was the only true way of telling if he was really harmed.

True to form Kankri made a disgusted and exasperated noise. Cronus was unrepentant.

She turned from observing them and clearing her own conscience to see how Damara and Porrim were faring against Meenah, only to find her view obscured by purple pulsing into near fuchsia. Kurloz took her face in an iron grip and her mind in icy tendrils.

He knew what she did and was unimpressed. She almost rolled her eyes at him. So she hurt one person. In the Alpha of their universe he'd caused so many doomed timelines with meddling and prodding and scheming. Scheming she never knew of, he seemed to remind her with a smirk that pulled on his facial stitches until they seemed to creak. Just another trick. Surely it was just him trying to mess with her perception to punish her like he was so much better. Disgusting.

As the Cerulean engaged in mental acrobatics to keep the mime at bay, her off-again-on-again mate sorry found her salty self neck deep in trouble as the combined ferocity of the two players drove her farther from the gate. Time and Space, while opposite aspects in many respects, were excellently complementary in battle. To add to the matter, Porrim in this instance had spent countless hours of their three sweeps playing constantly helping and empowering Damara. She became as close to friend as the East Beforan troll and because of it the two had mastered nearly all of their Fraymotiffs down to the smallest details. Meenah found it increasingly irritating; however, she was reassured by the distinct feeling of her magic hooked in Kankri’s Health. With virtually no effort on her part she was able to undo the worst damage they visited on her.

Kankri's would not agree, his head spinning and eyes losing focus as his health bar slowly trickled down, down, down. Lost in the daze of his slow but inevitable demise, he let his mind wander. His third eye opened wide after a full perigee of keeping it forcefully shut and the dismal instances of their many, many doomed selves’ demises came pouring back in. Shame, he'd thought he'd finally rid himself of the bloody daymares.  
His eye settled on the instant of the timeline they were on. Three distinct possibilities flitted across his pan. The outcome of one was an acceptable loss, the outcome of another irreparable damage to their ill-gotten victory, and the last was muddled, bloody to be sure, with visceral screaming so real he could feel the vibrations in his throat and chest. From there, the paths branched out and spiralled away from him, more confusing than ever, and he, less sure of anything.

He made a decision born of brash martyrdom and blood loss. Though likely it didn't matter which outcome he picked, when you lived in a doomed timeline it was less about what you did or could do as how long you had to do it. He had the potential to drag out their timeline for sweeps more, more time than even the Alpha gave them. He wasn't about to let the great bully of a hatchmate stealing his life take that from him.

An acceptable solution, a choice, a geass, and a responsibility. He wanted to be important, didn't he? He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to be remembered, loved and respected at any cost.  
  
He wanted people hanging off his every word and loving him.

Using his moirail as a crutch he got to his feet, and forced himself into the fray. Aranea seemed to become aware. Again bitterly, disappointingly, frustratingly too little too late. She seemed to be good at that lately. Her focus broke from Kurloz and she physically reached past him, trying to grab Kankri's ankle and keep him from whatever came next. Whatever he was planning was off script and she'd be damned if she let the errant Vantas fuck things up again. He did so much of that, seeking to divide the members even farther than they already were.

Her mistake lay within ignoring Kurloz however brief. His hand came down on her arm, yanking her away before she could do anything. His eyes smoldered into hers, the innermost ring of grey beginning to give way to bright purple leaving it a muddy, rain gutter shade of lilac-grey rather than sharp and crisp as his voodoos were. He grappled with her; it was no contest even if she was the stronger godtier, he was just plain stronger than she was. A purpleblood even as emaciated he was from his wrigglerhood neglect, a fact that likely as not would never change as he got older, would still be stronger than a ceruleanblood that spent a cushy childhood in the lap of luxury surrounded by tomes stacked floor to ceiling and many times her age.

He forced her back before suddenly releasing her to flop on her back, more surprised than anything, her wings stinging a little under her weight. He brought his foot down on her chest and clearly signed at her to stay where she was while he watched the Seer in action.  
  
Kankri's had caught up to where Porrim and Damara had chased Meenah. She had backed to the edge, wary of them and trying to get back to the door. If she just could reach it. Anyone paying attention would have noticed its shift from gold to a paler buttercup shade. It'd open soon, surely.  
  
Kankri's considered it briefly, hovering between the three and the door. His pulse had gotten sluggish and he had to drop to the stone again, gasping for breath that he'd never catch. He was almost hyperventilating but he forced himself to focus just a little longer. It was almost over. Even he didn't know what came next.

Porrim was distracted by the fraymotif charging between herself and Damara.  
  
Meenah was able to launch hers first, sapping their strength. Porrim dropped to her knees, biting her lip to draw blood, the copper tang helping her focus through the pain and not lose the spell they were weaving together. Damara shook her daze off and growled lowly. The bitch wasn't getting away.

Meenah thought otherwise. Using their momentary distraction she vaulted over them and ran for the door. With a sharp chime the door pulsed to a bright stark white. Meenah seemed surprised for the barest of moments. A victorious smile of sharkteeth gleamed in the spotlight the hive door provided. Then Kankri's hand closed on the door behind him. He pulled himself up as she got closer. He threw the door open. Her hand stretched out in front of her to stop him.

The fraymotiff was finally charged. Meenah was forced to dodge as the time-space anomaly came barrelling forward. Kankri's threw his arms wide, beginning a free fall through the doorway.

As he had foreseen, the fraymotiff caught him as he fell through the portal warping time and space around him. Where he ended up was anyone's guess. The last sounds he heard were the matching cries of his name from Porrim and Cronus. Darkness enveloped him and he felt them fade from his senses.

After an agonizing eternity stretched over a minute time and space finally settled and left him nauseous with vertigo. He curled up where he lay dry heaving and retching loudly as his body settled. The next thing he became aware of was the sting of salt on the breeze. Thirdly, a passing vision as he struggled up.

He felt the blow of a club to the back of his head and went down again in a boneless heap. Really, he should be used to this by now.  
Darkness overtook him. Brief flashes followed him as he lost his senses. Blood in the water. A woman crying. Bright, scarred, nearly blind violet eyes flecked with hues close to Tyrian.

A soft moan and he knew no more.

The two brutes standing over him smiled at the red dripping from the caller's club. Anytime else, anyone else, and a mutant-blooded runt like this would have been instantly culled.

But for now he had a use.

There was a customer in particular who was terribly fond of mutant slaves after all.


	2. Enter, The Orphaner.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TwofoldAxiom was good to Beta this one for me.  
> Chess, after all the time Beta-ing it and me keeping you up, I decided you needed credit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with slavers a bit, so there's that.

Madrina was quiet in the pre-twilight hours. Even as a port town there was a limit to how late people stayed awake. Hardly anyone who wasn't already working in some sector had been in their recuperacoon or passed out in a pile for hours already. 

Hardly anyone saw as a massive warship came gliding into the harbor. In the dying red sunlight, the metal of the ship was cast into a far darker red hue than the normal purple-black of the carbon based armored shell. Silently set to anchor a gangplank was lowered to the dock and the hatch opened with a creak of metal. A troll emerged, alone, his form was hidden by a nondescript but reflective metallic cloak. It covered him horn to boots from the powerful setting rays. Even his face was covered, his eyes safely hidden behind a visor of black one way glass. 

It was not for anonymity but a mere shortcoming of genetics that left the coldblood to keep himself veiled so thickly. Indeed if anyone wanted to know the Admiral’s identity all it would take would be a glance to the gold double symbols emblazoned on the ship's hull. As if it was a secret that only the second in command of all the seas had such a fine, sea, air and space worthy vessel. Being a royal certainly came with perks and one was the fact of his many connections in the slave and infrastructure systems he was always the first called and he was given first pick. Once he reached his destination, striding in as if he owned the place, he finally shed his protective garb and towered imperiously over the trolls who had obviously waited up all day for him. 

And why not? He was Orphaner fucking Dualscar. He was the fishprince of the Empire, culler extraordinare, keeper of the Rift Carbuncle and constant savior of their race. His silhouette was known by every wriggler, was loved and feared by all. A fairly tall troll, not as monstrously massive as the purple and indigo castes but large enough to tower over most trolls at a solid nine feet before even the long curve of his horns. 

He was master of the seas and not a single seadweller in it or filthy land-dwelling lowborn did not defer to him first. And he was here for the prize so tantalizingly offered to him. 

Cruelt Threin, the indigoblood who had apparently caught the mutant was waiting at the desk. Their horns rose up from their head to a tapered part before curving back like a sickle blade towards their forehead. Their symbol, embroidered on the back of their jacket looked like a pilcrow etched with a comma and a minus in a calligraphy script. If he had to guess they were likely topless under the jacket, always left open in the front garishly given their lanky and unappealing form, and wearing only black shorts with more appropriate boots underneath. They were rocking back on the back legs of their chair facing away as they shined their club. The rag in their hand was stained with a rainbow of hues, the most noticeable was the still vibrant red. 

Dualscar cleared his throat and the troll immediately slammed the front legs back down, bounded forward in the momentum, coming around into a bow for the high blood. 

“My life. My lord. Most gracious Orphaner,” They chirped in their normal stilted way of speaking. He was used to it, so he merely rolled his eyes and held up a hand. Normally he was all for ego stroking but today was not the time. 

“Sawve it. Ye said ye had somefin interesting for me?” He growled in his warbling accent. “Don't vwaste my time.”

“Oh of course. I would never. Right this way. Sir.” They nodded and pushed their way into the back room to where Dualscar knew the secret passage lay hidden. Inside a dresser was the opening to where their better, rarer stock was kept, mutants, psionics, gifted and collared telepaths, winged and finned lowbloods. Rare finds worth much more gold than the normal fare of low and mid bloods. 

Dualscar ought to have a frequent shoppers card for as many times as he'd been there. 

Distantly as they descended into the gloom, he could hear the faint sounds of grieving trolls, and more loudly than that, the sounds of a vigorous beating. He didn't even bat an eye at it. 

“A warning. Most high Orphaner. This one is. Very disobedient.” Cruelt mused. “It must be. A problem of. The caste.”

“Vwhich caste vwould that be?” He snorted derisively. “they're all disobedient.”

“Why, dear Orphaner. He is mutant. Blood sickening red. A sign surely. Appearing after this.” He cackled. “they are psychic. Visions like before. Heretic mutant reds. It is hilarious. But tiresome. He ranted endlessly.”

He paused. A loud crack of metal on skin, bones yielding beneath. A shriller yell than Duanso’s voice came from below them and Cruelt laughed. 

“We are correcting. Will be silent. All for you.”

“So you found a mutantblood, a redblood, and your first thought vwas to try and sell him to me rather than cull on sight?” Dualscar asked softly. 

“Mmmm, second thought. Chop logic.” they shrugged. “The rules are. Different for you. Are they not?”

“Of course.” He replied as they came to the floor and headed down a hall. The air was uncomfortably warm, thick and rank from so many bodies packed in one space. The Orphaner could not disguise the disgusted crinkle of his sniff node. 

As they got closer the yells of the mutant fell silent and as they stopped before a door, it opened outward revealing a tall teal troll dressed in long, draping teal robes, stained currently by splashes of blue and crimson red, exiting the room. 

He blinked in surprise then bowed at the waist. 

“Oh hello, Orphaner Dualscar, sir. I did not expect you so soon. Your speed and timing are, as ever, impressive.”

Dualscar knew for certain there was a pitch flirtation in there somewhere. He'd been sure for a while now. “Trigon, vwhy do vwe alvways meet in dungeon? Maybe you should get out more.”

Duanso Trigon, was a higher teal, bordering cobalt. He stood nearly eye level with the Orphaner, his horns like thick flat picket boards with jagged needle like protrusions sprouting raggedly from their sides. His sign was some archaic symbol that looked to be some mash of letters and numbers, he'd had it tattooed on the scar tissue of his neck. Around the same time he'd gotten tattoos and piercings to hide the fact the scar-like flesh over his forehead once housed a third, vestigial eye. A small mutation. One ignorable due to his rank. His ancestor after all was the one known as the Voyeur. His third eye in conjunction with rare psychic abilities made him a force to be reckoned with. Duanso had inherited none of these. 

At some point during his slaver training, a rogue psionic had caused a nearby explosion, taking out his right auricular flap and arm and scarring the right half of his face and torso badly. He had a bionic augmentation made to replace his lost arm which worked almost better than the original.

Dualscar however was used to him, in all his oddity, and his feeble attempts at flirtation. He was caught somewhere between embarrassed for the guy and irritated at his continued existence. Ah but they served a purpose for now. 

“At any rate,” Duanso continued as he straightened up. “I finally shut him up again, it's funny. He had quieted for a few days until someone let it slip that you were coming.” he cleared his throat with a glare at the indigo nearby. 

“Vwhat can I say? My reputation proceeds me,” he didn't bother with puffing up. No displays necessary when he already knew how awe-inspiring he was. 

“Yes well that's the thing. Previous to this, he'd been spouting the usual radical crap. All troll are equal, slavery is wrong, yadda yadda yadda,” he made a circular gesture with his hand. “then when you came up he got this strange, far away look. Started spouting this bullshit that you were going to cull us. I mean sure we broke some rules here, but it was all for your benefit. He's deranged to think you're here to save him. “

There was a question in there. A too knowing look. Dualscar's eyes narrowed, he stared the teal down, daring him to hold the challenging gaze. As expected the lower born troll dropped his gaze, offering a lame apology in the form of, “the mutant is a fool.”

“I agree, first smart thing you'wve said since I got here.” he growled. “nowv, showv me the brat, or stop vwasting my time!” 

With a scramble, Duanso moved out of the way, allowing Cruelt to lead the imperious seadweller inside. They bowed a little as they presented the mutant. And by the gods he was a mess. 

The child, and he was a child by Dualscar's estimate, was a limp bloody mess. Somehow he'd remained kneeling where he was put, hands tied behind him, robes soaked with blood. Those robes were something else, the robes themselves were plain enough, a drab, dirty, scab-brown color but they were accented by crimson tights and hood as bright as the mutant blood flowing through the young trolls veins. On the front was what was surely the trolls sign, a diagonal slash with three running droplets of stylistic blood running from the slash. At best it was a far too on the sniff node symbol for the mutant. At worst it was proof of a possible cult of the Signless Sufferer. And not even two weeks since the heretic rebel was put down. 

It was like a sick joke. 

He moved forward before kneeling down, roughly taking the boy’s chin and shifting him around a little as if appraising him. Before his eyes the swelling seemed to decrease, enough so one eye opened and the other cracked a bit, the rings of dull crimson regarding him, thoughtful but wary. After a moment of choking, blood dribbling down his chin from split lips and his bleeding fangs he managed weakly, “you… came.”

He raised a brow watching the change in the mutant and looked up at the other two questioningly. “didn't tell me he vwas a fast healer.” 

“that was surprising! He did it. Often at day. Never directly before!” Cruelt declared. “must have wanted. To impress you!”

“I broke his fucking jaw, this is ridiculous. Now they heal themselves?” Trigon scoffed. “that's a power meant for Tyrians. Not for filth like him.” 

“At any rate. You vwere right, he's caught my interest. I'll take him off your hands.” Dualscar nodded not looking at them. “fetch my cloak. I don't vwant anyone seein him.”

“Right away sir,” Cruelt said as they bounded back up the stairs. 

The mutant kept watching him, a desperate pleading look in his eyes though Dualscar knew not why. It was enough that he was playing this game at all. The boy should be grateful. Thankfully he kept his mouth shut. 

“Sir, may I talk to you? Plainly?” Duanso asked. 

“Yer gonna anyvway. But I'd rather you didn't unless it's business.” Dualscar snorted. 

“I think maybe he should have been culled instead. He's strange, psychic, who knows what else!” His fists clenched at his side's. “I know Cruelt is excited for what we'll be making. But it's dangerous. Mutants are dangerous and they can't be trusted.”

“You'd knowv somethin about that wouldn't ye, Trigon?” Dualscar said, straightening up and dusting off his thighs. 

The teal fisted his hands and instantly dropped his gaze. He tried and failed to come up with a retort instead bowing low and saying. “Were there any others you wanted, sir?” 

“No. I'wve got vwhat I've come for.” He took the cloak from Cruelt as he reappeared and wrapped the mutant in it before forcing him to his feet. He stood but wavered. Dualscar sighed and scooped him up like a sack of potatoes, keeping him cloaked as he carried him none too gently back up to the room he'd entered at the storefront. 

He paused, pulling at the blinds to check through colored windows if night had fallen. Indeed the two moons glowed in the night, the full pink and green glows rendered purple and teal by the tint of the blue glass. Time to go. 

“Trigon, Cruelt, I vwish I could say it’s been nice doin business vwith ya, but I havwe places ta be an’ things ta kill,” he called over his shoulder. The two predictably were waiting at attention, though the look on Trigon’s face hadn’t wavered from the thinly veiled shame. Dualscar smirked. “Ya knowv vwhat ta do. Charge it the usual vway, if you lot can manage that.”

“Yes sir. Of course, Sir,” Cruelt grinned and bowed low. Trigon hesitated but joined him. Just enough of a flinch for Dualscar to make his decision. It seemed their usefulness had come to an end. Pity. There were plenty of brownnosing bluebloods to replace them though, so it was just as well. The only difficulty would be the tedium in learning new names and faces. The midbloods were less likely to give preferential treatment for one if they referred to them as “lower lifeform #X” or “You with the shitblood” so he’d have to deal for now. 

He pushed his way out of the establishment and set course for his ship. With the cool winds of the night pushing away the remaining heat of the day, more trolls had begun to come out. Not too many yet, mostly the day sparrows. He always hated those chattery cheerful, blind things. It would make things easier by far. 

The gangplank was lowered before he even reached it, he valued never having to break his stride. He had a crew that knew what he wanted, when he wanted, without him having to say so and that made things so much easier. He didn’t have to beat them for one, highbloods favored beatings and humiliation but they made the lowbloods so much more prone to mutiny or suicide when overused. No he set strict rules, enforced them with punishment for those that stepped out of line and rewards for those that didn’t. He made sure to be fair and not take pleasure out of it. Such sadism was better reserved for the pitch quadrant. Speaking of, he hadn’t seen his in a few perigees. Perhaps she’d be enticed by his little power display today. 

Like a moth to a flame, or a fish to an angler, she always managed to be drawn to his grand gestures. Today he planned a little fireworks show. He could only hope she’d take the bait. If not, it’d be more perigees of chasing down her little hits and treasure hunts. Fun in the short term but boring as hell when it was all you were doing. 

Even the thrill of their forbidden escapades grew boring after a time, especially when she’d become so flagrant with their set rules. Well she was a lawless pirate, what did she care for rules? He knew that. Perhaps he was a sadist seeking to break her of that. The longer they went between he questioned if she really was worth the trouble, but when they were together, his mind went elsewhere entirely. 

A tug on his uniform gets his attention. The mutant brat was holding onto him. Excuse.

He glanced quickly away, then back, then away. Signalling with his eyes. Well that was one thing. Dualscar raised a brow to look where he indicated, not bothering to hide anything on his own ship. Just the captain on duty holding the door for him. He passed the lower Seadweller with a nod of his head. 

The small mutant seemed to try and press as close to him as he could, hiding himself from the others view. 

“Got a new one for the collection, Admiral?” The seadweller chuckled. “You seem to have picked quite the pet for yourself. 

“Indeed, he seems to be quite the lap troll. Let's hope hard vwork don't break em!” he laughed with the other before asking. “You knowv vwhere she is today? This one is pretty banged up but I figure a jade would be more reassuring than a blue after this one's beating.”

“Hard to say, last I saw she was helping on deck C5. But she could be done by now and back in her quarters.” The other hummed. “I could send someone ahead to find her for you. Lexsit, Tersis, Thodra and Kinfot are all free or doing minor tasks.”

He shook his head. “No need, I can find one troll myself, I think. Round up a regimen of our threshecutioners and head to the slavers’ shop. They've outlived their usefulness. They broke imperial law by keeping and selling heretic red mutants on the COS list. Any slaves that would be willing to work can be pardoned. Cull the rest,” 

“You can't do that!” The troll finally broke his silence, though if the look on his face was anything to go by he at least had the thinkpan enough to know it was a mistake the minute he said it. His eyes immediately lowered, pupils still blown in fear, enough to hide the inner red that told the truth of his foul blood. His form trembled in Dualscar’s arms. So he could be taught to obey, or at to recognize where his leash ended. 

The other seadweller started snickering. “Saving another one of the rebel types, sir?”

For his part the mutant looked too horrified for words. 

“Hardy harr harr,” Dualscar grinned. “Make fun of me, see vwhat happens!”

“Alright Cap, but if this one gets put down you only have yourself to blame!” He grinned. “It'll be done and over by dinner time, sir.”

“I knew I could count on you, Naymgy, I don't mind if its flashy, throw my name around all you like, I'll draft the orders once I drop him off. Just remember to keep the collateral damage low this time.” He nodded. “Nowv, I better find her. He seems to be going into shock here and I ain't vwastin my time and credits ovwer nothin.”

The troll saluted and marched off. Dualscar smirked and headed down an continuingly complicated series of hallways and passages. 

“What was that? Er… Sir?” The mutant squeaked from beside him. “And isn't that overkill? For just me?”

“Kid, did yer cult just not tell you anthin or do ye havwe no sense of self preservwation?” He growled, eliciting a startled chirp from the other. 

“My preservation skills are perfectly adequate of a troll of my standing! Assuming someone is capable or incapable of requisite survival skills can be quite traumatizing for someone without a lusus you know!” He snapped in response. This drew the orphaner up short and he stopped in stunned silence, looking down at the mutant revealed an expression shifting between smug and worried. He couldn’t stifle his laughter at the kid’s expense. Damn but this night was entertaining it seemed! 

“For someone vwith no lusus, huh? Kid do you knowv vwho I am?” he squinted at him. “Or have the beatins turned yer pan ta mush?” 

“Distasteful insults to my Intelligence are unnecessary and hurtful, and of course I know who you are. You’re--” he seemed to pause, weighing his words and the weight and taste of them on his tongue before eventually spitting out. “You’re the Orphaner Dualscar, Sir.” 

“Damn right! You best not forget boy, I’ll take pity on ya today, been doin that all evwenin it seems. But I vwon’t forgivwe such insolence later.” He smirked. “Evwen if ya did come from some backvwater cult. They really didn’t care much for ya if they didn’t evwen tell ya the basics. Yer awvful arrogant for some nobody mutant.” 

“I am not just, some nobody, I am--” he faltered again, this time the expression was more confusing. Less fear and more annoyance. “Never mind, I couldn’t explain it to you in a lifetime if I had that. I couldn’t if I wanted to.” 

“Vwhat are ya, a god? Some kinda reincarnation of the Sufferer sent to free the people?” He snorted. He started walking again, shifting the other so he had a little more breathing room. “The Sufferer died tvwo vweeks ago, so you knowv. Ya can’t be his reincarnation.” 

“Well of course not, only a total idiot would believe that.” He scoffed. “He’s mine, clearly. Well, a doomed version of me that died a failure, and he was supposed to be the finished product. Honestly what utter universal garbage.” 

“That’s certainly a newv one. But ya don’t sound like you believwe vwhat you’re selling, kid.” He stopped short, moving to unlock a door and entering what appeared to be living quarters. They were utilitarian for the most part, a common area with a small dining facility and rooms that the younger could see were resting block offshoots with a closed door off to the right that might have been an ablution block.

“Rosa! You about? I got a charity case for you!” he called with a slight edge to his voice. The smaller troll tensed at his side. No, he knew who was being called and he couldn’t say he was looking forward to it. “Rosa come on! Consider it a gift!” 

“No need to shout so,” A jade blooded troll hummed as she appeared in one of the doorways. She spoke with a grace and dignity such that every word felt measured and meaningful, but without the stops and gaps the indigo from before had. She was simply garbed in a green smock and calf length pants with slipper flats. A collar bearing the mark of his house was fastened around her neck but seemed not to give her any distress despite it marking her as his property. She was tall, but only came up to seven feet by the tips of her horns, forcing her to look up at Dualscar and he to look down on her. Despite this the power play was obvious, she did not cow to him. “If you think you can bully me into moving faster you’re wrong. All you’ll do is wake the others, and their quality of work would be diminished with inadequate rest. You wouldn’t run this ship like that.” 

He merely smiled, pleased at having riled her up so easily. He simply held out the troll in his arms for her inspection. “Take him, he’s yours.” 

She accepted the smaller warily, eyes widening as he peeked out from the hood, her dead son’s young face staring her down, every inch of it nearly the exact replica of her lost child, save for his wounds and scars being different and the length of his hair. But the horns were the same, and beyond the bruising and swelling that remained and the hairline scars he didn’t show prolonged signs of abuse. His horns were evenly textured as if well maintained, without the feeling shaved ones had. She’d seen enough fanatics shave them down to match her son’s before. But the blood staining him, even darkened as it dried, as well as the rings around his pupils gave away the truth. A red blood child who looked damn close to the one she’d lost not even two weeks prior.

“Can this be true?” She demanded softly before pulling him to her in a crushing embrace, instantly protective in a way that lit her skin like the fire of the sun. “Where did you find him? Who hurt him? Are they dead?”

“It’s about as true as it can be, but by all accounts, looks like he was raised by some cultist freaks to think he was some version of your son,” Dualscar filled in before the other could intercede. “As for where, slavwers; vwhere and wvho else? Anyone else would have had the sense to kill him.” 

She hissed angrily at him baring her maw fully for him to see as a promise she’d open his throat and the throat of anyone who dared try to take him. 

“Buuuuuut I savwed him and they are on their vways to bein dead.” He shifted and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So I believwe vwhat you vwanna say is, thank you.” 

She was silent, her hissing and spitting calming as she considered his words, the glow fading to a dim background light. “Thank you.”

“You’re vwelcome!” He grinned and spun on his heel. “Vwell, nowv I gotta go, other things to deal vwith, but I’m sure you can handle one vwriggler, right?” 

“I am an adult!” He squeaked, finally breaking his silence and pulling back enough to glare, though he was quickly returned to her tight hold.

“Could havwe fooled me,” He shrugged, and then the Orphaner was gone, leaving the disoriented and frustrated youth with the brooding mother jade.


	3. From the ashes, a seed is planted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was hard getting out until it wasn't.

The door slid shut behind Orphaner Dualscar and left the other two trolls in silence. Kankri rested his head against the Dolorosa’s shoulder. For a minute both could pretend. He could pretend it was Porrim, though the troll holding him was older and leaner from a hard life on the run. She was still the same size and warmth. She smelled of the same soap, that much hadn't changed, though her hair was shorter and tickled his nose. 

For Dolorosa, it was much the same. She was happy to cling to the spitting image of her dead son. No matter how impossible it was to think her son had come back to her. Ah but he was soft and small in a way her son never had been. He pulled close to her,  but he didn't cling to her as her son did. This boy was not her son and she was not his mother. Even if they wanted it, pretending to be such would not help either of them. 

So reluctantly she asked.  “Who are you, really?”

He tilted his head to clear his mouth to be heard but kept his eyes covered. His voice was soft but clear and sounded more certain than she'd expected when he said, “Kankri Vantas,”

“What an odd name,” she teased. “It must be popular lately, I knew a Kankri Vantas once.”

“My, ah, predecessor right?” he reconciled himself to not divulge more than necessary. He'd already run his mouth to the Orphaner and look where it'd gotten him. A whole lot of nowhere is where. Still Kankri was Kankri and running his mouth may as well have been sport to him. “though really,  _ I  _ came first.”

Rosa chuckled, the little thing was a bit smug wasn't he? Arrogant and self-assured in ways her son never was. She brought him over to the loungeplank and set him down. She moved to sit across from him in one of the chairs She delicately crossed her ankles and folded her hands on her lap, but despite her demure act she seemed to watch him, hawk-like and judging. She sized him up the way one might a particularly troublesome grubsteak and Kankri suddenly longed for the more gentle treatment he’d been receiving not a moment before. “Is that so? And you are, what, seven or eight sweeps?” 

“Nine,” He sat up straighter and glared. “I am nine sweeps old,”

“And you haven’t yet molted a second time, ah but he was a late bloomer too,” She mused, pressing her fingertips to her lips, eyes sparkling as she thought of time long past, emotion bringing dismay fluid from her anguish bladders at the very thought. She blinked it away and smiled at him, “Well, it must be hereditary.”

“That’s just like you, Porrim, you think you know everything about me,” he sighed then froze, looking to her eyes again. It was so easy to forget and fall into familiar patterns, but this wasn’t home and he wasn’t safe. He shouldn’t even be having this conversation with her, he should be getting the hell out of Troll Dodge and heading back to find his friends. 

The more he tried though, the farther it slipped from him, much like his now-locked sylladex, his god tier powers seemed to get weaker by the day, and whether that was from overuse during his captivity, malnourishment threrein, or a result of him being on this world when he really should never have been, he had no way of being certain.

He’d have to play along with the narrative for now, which meant revealing no more than necessary right? That’s certainly what the protagonists in his very, very illegal, banned books did. He seriously couldn’t keep his mouth shut for a moment it seemed. So he’d have to see how this played out. 

He’d looked away during his inner monologue, lost in thoughts that perhaps she couldn’t hear but emotions that showed plainly on his rather cute, expressive face. Dolorosa may not understand quite how he knew things, or how he came to be but she could read him like a book. He was scared, terrified even, rightly so, but also holding back as if he thought it’d protect her. His motives were still unclear. 

Finally he looked back up to meet her eyes and try and read her. She was puzzled for certain but a wry little grin was curling the corners of her mouth. “Cheeky thing, you’re not supposed to call your mother by her first name,” 

He paused, turning it over in his mind, “We’re doing this then? I’ll be ‘your son’ and you my ‘mother’?” 

“Well, the captain certainly wants us to,” She waved it off. “And for as long as you’re here, you must do what he says,”

“You don’t,” He says instantly and almost regrets it. Almost.

She laughs, chest deep and heartily. When she’s finally sated of her mirth exclamations, she has to hold her face in her hands to wipe away more dismay fluid. “Of course I don’t. I’m his moirail, I do as I please and he does his best to keep me from getting culled.”

Kankri clenches his hands tightly. He knows that feeling, how many times did he put his own moirail--err, moirails--through the same wringer for no other reason than he wanted to see how far he could push the boundaries and rules? How many times had it burned him in the end? His sylladex and his highly-illegal second strife specibus were proof of it. 

“Still, I can’t take that same risk with you,” She says and stands smoothly, moving to tower over him. He watches her with a kind of desperation, she can’t kill him, he thinks. She won’t, he hopes. 

In the end she folds like a wilted flower, collapsing under its own weight. She sits beside him and runs her hands over his face and through his hair, her touch cool and light as silk. He doesn’t know why he tolerates it. Perhaps he’s equally lonely. Perhaps it’s the desperate look in her eyes, or the dismay fluids that stain her bright white cheeks. Perhaps it’s something softer inside than anything he knew from his previous life. 

He decides it’s because he’s tired. That is surely the reason his vision is pale red and hazy with his own fluids. It’s why, when the Dolorosa pulls him into her arms, he holds tight to her, instead of pushing back and demanding personal space. It’s why his guard fails him and consciousness slips away. He hasn’t rested much at all in the last few days. He knows the rhythm as this pump biscuit. He knows the rhythm as surely as his own. 

“I don’t mind,” he slurs out, and knows what he’s agreeing to is his own culling once more. “I don’t mind if it’s you.” 

She laughs again, this time softer and higher, and he thinks if he didn’t know better he’d have mistaken it for crying. He doesn’t think on it long before he’s lost to sleep and dreams. 

Dolorosa holds him for a long, long, long time after that. She alternates crying and laughing as quickly as Dualscar vacillates his concupiscent quadrants. She holds him close to her breast and promises to herself that this time will be different. 

“You should just cull him, save us  _ all _ the trouble,” A voice calls from the doorway and she has to bite her tongue to hold back what she wants to say. 

“He’s just going to get culled, Dualscar couldn’t protect you lot the first time,” She drawls. She stands in the doorway to the respiteblock, her figure backlit by the room. The figure this oliveblood casts is not terribly impressive, she’s smaller than the Dolorosa, but stockier too. Her horns curve up, tips pointing out from her head giving her a scant few inches of height. “I’d daresay he  _ didn’t _ . But still, you were saved from being executed, a fate you really don’t deserve after your involvement and get to live comfy, cozy with the rest of us. I won’t allow you to jeopardize that because you still want to play lusus to cullbait.”

It’s all the Dolorosa can do not to turn her nose up at the other troll, Rathiz Onnonu had been aggressive towards her since her addition to Dualscar’s crew and probably for good reason. Hard for a mother grieving a child to reconcile one troll’s fear over her own. “Be quiet Rathiz, can’t you see that he’s sleeping? I’ll be cross if you wake him.”

“Do it now, then. Do it yourself. Isn’t a kinder mercy to kill him? He won’t feel any pain if you’re quick, isn’t that better than that screaming death your first one had?” She demands. “Or would you like to see how clever the Empress can be this time? Would you rather wait until Dualscar tires of him?” 

Dolorosa snarls at the other, her hair standing on end and her skin glowing blinding white. Instinct wins out and Rathiz disappears back into the respite block, tail metaphorically tucked between her legs. 

Dolorosa keeps hissing even after she’s out of sight and Kankri, used to Porrim’s hystrionics by now, instead just tucks his face against her shoulder to block out the light as much as possible and returns to sleep. It takes her a while to calm down, she is first and foremost a predator and the little display she shared with Rathiz has woken up the other slaves that were present. It’s hard to ignore the thump of their pushers or the hum of their racing blood. She does anyway. 

It’s harder to ignore her words. It’s true and Dolorosa knows it. This was the kind of world that took trolls like her son, chewed them up, spat them out and defecated on the remains. It was the kind of world where you were better off dead and free than alive and used. She thought of the Psiionic, now the Helmsman for the Empress. She thought of the Disciple, missing in action but free. She thought of the many followers, simply culled for their rebellion in following her son. She thought of her son, himself, of how he raged and screamed and choked to death upon his own blood when the arrow pierced his chest. She could remember the fire and the smell of his burning flesh and how the crowd  _ cheered _ as he suffered and died and drowned her anguish in the sound of violence. 

For just a half second she considered that maybe the others were right. She could do it, if anyone could. It was her responsibility to cull any wriggler who would not make it to save them any anguish, wasn’t it? It weighed heavy on her conscience.

Then Kankri shifted again in his sleep, peaceful, but adjusting for some sore muscle or aching bone until he was comfortable again, settled against her, with his soft face so still and trusting, his breaths coming soft and slow in a familiar rhythm.

She couldn’t.  She knew she couldn’t harm him, come hell or high water, she would face down the Condescension herself,  _ again _ , if it meant keeping him from harm. She tightened her grip on him, earning a few sleepy mutters of protest and not much more. It was clear that her pump biscuit, grieving though it was, had made room for this new child. She may not yet love him as she did her son, but she could, she knew she could. She knew she would, that it was already too late to stop the process.

No matter what came next, she’d made her decision to protect him from everything, and anything. 

 

As she brushed a stray hair from off of his face, she hoped it’d be enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a timeline where the names are the same through the scratch. Personality is notwithstanding.


	4. The Orphaner: Lost in thoughts Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dualscar burns down the slavepen and ruminates on what he's doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some gore/violence at the beginning of this, if you want to skip to the part where Dualscar drinks shitty overpriced alcohol and thinks about where he's gone wrong in life  
> Use Ctrl + F for or scroll until you see **~~∆~~** that page break. If you're not fond of alcohol mentions or power Dynamics watch for those in the second half.

Dualscar had made good on his promise, starting the proper paperwork and waivers for his men who were destroying the slave shop with exceptional fervor. He brought up the images on the display screen near his desk and watched the carnage.

His personal flaysquad was exceptional in combat, efficient and without mercy but it seemed Trigon and Threin were not going down without a fight. They'd released the slaves to try and cause confusion, and his forces were split in trying to round them all up, culling those that fought back, and dealing with the Slavers themselves.

People had started to gawk, trolls going about their nightly business were treated to watching the precision of his unit.  
The more docile slaves, mostly the lowest rust and bronze slaves were quickly herded away from the fray. A few of the goldbloods and a lime had tried to escape but were quickly captured, a total of 14 slaves of varying ages were subdued first. Only two officers were needed to guard them, leaving 18 remaining.

Unsurprisingly the mutants fought back. They had the most to lose and little but death to gain. A young blue blood with weak telekinetic powers and weaker strength was doing his best to keep distance from his crew. He threw anything he could get his hands or powers on, which wasn't much, it was a matter of waiting until he tired himself out. A tealblood of quite some age was gifted with pyrokinesis, however it was quickly apparent they were useless on their own, completely blind they were relying on a young goldblood to aim for them.

Beyond these there were the Olive and Cerulean slaves, both fighting back out of the sense they'd been wronged, that they were better than slaves because of their middling and higher ranks.

What fools.

Anyone, regardless of blood, could be a slave. You just had to get sloppy and it was over, a fact he knew too well.

From 20 officers engaged in quelling or culling the malcontents leaving the remaining 18 to subdue Trigon and Threin. More than enough but with so many people watching they were turning it into a spectacle. They were toying with them,a stringing them along and working them into a dead end. The threshecutioners would dance in and out of turn, swiping little cuts across their opponents limbs, each little rush of pain and adrenaline sending their opponents into a frenzy of panicked energy.

With Trigon and Threin cornered, the pair’s fighting grew more frantic, Threin’s clubs could only move so fast against the blades of his threshecutioners. Soon enough the two fell. Trigon was too weak to keep up the pace and his throat opened like grubfat on a hot knife. He choked, fell to his knees and dropped his weapon, another Threshecutioner took that moment to relieve his head from his shoulders fully and his body fell to the ground, spasming as he died. In response, Threin doubled his efforts, the death of his partner spurring him to greater heights. It was almost a shame to waste him. His rage and whirlwind of motions afforded him a few lucky strikes on the closest of the group, but luck and rage could only carry him so far. The threshecutioners in response took a part for each hit he landed in a bloody display, toying with him to the very end.  
His monitor pinged gently before an audio message played.

\-- _This is COD Filipe Naymgy. We have neutralized the target, secured the goods and and proceeding to final termination_ \--

Dualscar leaned forward and pressed a button. His lips curled back over shark like teeth and delight crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“This Orphaner Dualscar, Second Admiral of The Alternian Empire of Her Imperial Condescension. You have my go ahead to proceed.” He purred.

  
The figure on the screen gave a thumbs up and signalled another troll who moved forward and set something off. A few moments of silence passed then the entire shop erupted in flames and collapsed in on itself in a controlled explosion. The flames and smoke rose skyward, the pillar building higher and higher. Tiny sparks and embers glowed on the wind like little floating stars before snuffing out.

He had enjoyed watching the threshecutioners work and the delight they took in carrying out their objective. They were artists of movement and blade and it was always a pity that more trolls didn't use them to their fullest extent. Dualscar watched until the sight became monotonous and turned the monitor off.

Ah well, he had paperwork to submit, which meant it was time to find one of the onboard law-trolls. There was so much to do, things to notarize, new slaves to process and on top of that he'd have to check in on his new project. Although Dualscar rationalized that that one was low on his priorities, he could trust the Dolorosa to handle him for a few hours.

He set to work immediately.

**~~∆~~**

After several hours of running around and making sure all loose ends were dead or in his own possession, Dualscar allowed himself a respite. He sent the order out to his men to leave the port at the break of dawn and to leave him alone, unless an emergency came up.

So for now he settled back on a fancy loungeplank, opened a bottle of some overpriced fancy soporific brew and tipped the bottle back. It was dry and gave a smooth burn down the back of his throat as he drank it. When about a third of the bottle was gone he set it back down on a nearby table.  
He lounged back picking up a book from a nearby side table and picking up where he left off. The tale of a forbidden matespritship between a disgraced highblood noble and a young up and coming low blood prodigy. It was trashy and overdone and saccharine sweet and Dualscar found himself laughing at it the more he read but it was something to do and he liked the author. Yulgin Empayl was a cobalt tomewiggler rather famous for her dicey, fantastical caste-blind writing that some called pumpbiscuit warming and others called pandering garbage.  
Dualscar liked it well enough he didn't have to justify his tastes to anyone. Save, perhaps, Rosa.

Except it wasn't all that long ago that he did. He closed his eyes upon rereading the same paragraph for a third time. It seemed like any moment Kankri would plop over on the lounge plank beside him, or on his lap if he was feeling cheeky, and comment on the book. This would instigate some more personal and dark insults from Mituna. Of course it would devolve into fighting that would take the likes of both Rosa and Meulin to break up.

It was a nostalgia filled halcyon tainted garbage is what it was. Dumb bastard that Signless was he made Dualscar's little game difficult. It was supposed to be simple, he would skirt the rules and advance factions to fall later. It's was some kind of messed up three-dimensional chess and he was the one fifteen steps ahead riding the sky-horse bouncing around the board for his black queen. That's all it was supposed to be.

Supposed to be? He grit his teeth, picked up the bottle again and drank deeply as if that'd solve his issues. That's all it was.

There were times he felt his resolve waiver, he felt something close to pity, or the devotion he felt to his queen, for the bratty rebel. He'd felt something akin to that for someone who was not worthy of his attention.  
Signless had plied Dualscar with affection and camaraderie and things he didn't have properly have words for and he fell for it  
Hook, line and sinker.  
He'd gotten comfortable, sloppy and it nearly cost him everything. He was sure for the longest time that Condesce had suspected his involvement. He was sure he'd go down with the miserable mutant and he'd been ready to go down swinging.  
Or maybe set aside his honor and beg, he really wasn't sure. The chance never came up, instead she offered the Orphaner the day off to watch the proceedings, he stayed long enough for the rebel preacher to scream his last and collected the Dolorosa from the trolls marked for slavery. He couldn't keep the psiioniic, Mituna. Condesce had made note of his powers and taken him for her own. They'd shared a laugh about how pathetic the Archeradicator was for missing the Disciple.

Dolorosa had not allowed him to forget that. He didn't think she ever would.

Once it was all over, he'd left and the Dolorosa hadn't stopped wailing or threatening him for what felt like a perigee. He threw her in solitary to let her work it out when he found he couldn't reason with her. Unfortunately for her, no one was brave enough to come near her and when Dualscar tried to bring her food she'd throw it in his face and threaten yet more violence. The iron she was bound with was all that kept her from acting on it. He was not a patient man, so for the time being she starved.

He waited for days until she was too weak to do any serious damage to him, the fearsome strength of rainbowdrinkers was something even a highblood like himself didn't want to tangle with. So he came then, when she was weak and her anger mostly spent and freed her from her shackles and held her, tight and close and soothed the remainder of her sorrow. And when she was sated of her misery and her anger, he opened his veins to feed her. The Dolorosa drank her fill of him but did not kill him. Forgiveness was a heavy taste on her tongue but the desire to live outweighed her desire for revenge.  
And thus did the Dolorosa become the Moirail of the Orphaner Dualscar and thus did she seek to drive him mad with her antics.  
He wanted to laugh at how absurd it was.  
All of this because of one Kankri Vantas getting way too close to him.  
Not two weeks later and he found another Kankri Vantas dropped in his lap. The universe had a rotten sense of humor.  
He finished his bottle and picked up his book again. There was no point working himself up over it again. There was no point rehashing things. He'd simply lost that round and he would just have to accept that.

This new game, was less chess and more hide-and-seek or keep-away. He had a new toy and he couldn't share it.

Except maybe with Rosa. At least then he felt a little bit like he had earned her forgiveness beyond not letting her starve.

Then again, what was he thinking?  
He was Orphaner fucking Dualscar. He didn't need anyone's forgiveness and approval.

He certainly wasn't going to ask for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to hammer this out quick to make up for the long gap in between. I hope it was alright.


End file.
